


Watering your flower

by blackmoonalcolyte (jomipay)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post 177, Smut, adrenaline high sex, and a little frenzied, grey asexual character, just really tender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27808936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomipay/pseuds/blackmoonalcolyte
Summary: He drags Wilde into the room by the hand and wastes no time in pushing him down onto the bed. His mouth is hungry at Wilde’s throat, greedily drawing gasp after gasp from it and luxuriating in the satisfaction of being the one to will those noises into existence. He doesn’t mind sex. He could live without it, but it’s a perfectly pleasant way to spend time. But every so often, he gets a brief glimpse, a brief window of understanding into what it must be like for others, for people who wilt like flowers without water without the touch of a lover. He doesn’t know how Wilde could stand it. Tonight he will water his lover well.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 11
Kudos: 69





	Watering your flower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [makesometime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesometime/gifts).



> I tossed the idea of kind of frantic adrenaline fueled sex around in Rome and makesometime really delivered on that with the most lovely piece. I hope this is half as good as hers. For [makesometime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesometime/pseuds/makesometime).

Wilde remembers when he wakes up. His lungs are burning and his chest aches and his heart is beating too fast,  _ but he remembers _ . He opens his eyes to Zolf staring down at him with those green, green eyes he absolutely adores. It’s cold, it’s so cold wherever it is he’s woken up and he shivers. Cold air hitting his bare skin brings his attention to what remains of his shirt and he doesn’t have time to process that, or to assess his chest for scarring before Zolf pulls him into his arms. Zolf’s arms are strong around him, his chest and body solid against him and the force of the emotion in his chest. The unbearable ache of it builds and builds until it spills over and he is sobbing into Zolf’s chest. He is restless. His body does not fit, his soul didn’t settle into right, an outfit, a mask he’s wearing and the fit is all wrong. He doesn’t like the feeling. His skin is too tight, his mind won’t settle and his head is pounding, the acrid smell in the room only serving to make it worse. The press of his magic against his mind is unfamiliar and he  _ hates _ that, hates that something once so natural, an extension of himself more trusted than his grip on a sword, now feels alien and hostile. 

He clings to Zolf, tilts his chin up to look into those jade eyes, filled with more fondness and affection than he knows what to do with. It helps. Zolf places a gloved hand at the back of his neck, brings their foreheads together, and that helps, too.

Zolf is crying too. The room is so cold that the tears have frozen halfway down his face. 

“Thought I lost you.” Zolf’s voice is hoarse, and his breath warms the space between their lips. 

Wilde stares openly at Zolf’s lips, tracing their familiar shape with his eyes, too focused on what he wants that he is startled by the reality of getting it, surprised when Zolf’s lips meet his own. The kiss is gentle to start, but quickly becomes more and more desperate and searching until their lips are crashing together. Every movement of Zolf’s mouth against his settles his soul further and further in his body. His heart is still pounding, but his skin relaxes, his bones stop buzzing, and the press of Zolf’s lips—the slide of his tongue, the heat of his mouth—feel just like magic. 

They part when someone politely clears their throat. Cel is staring at them, eyes wides and vibrating with barely contained glee. Zolf stands and helps him to his feet. He takes his jacket off and puts it around Wilde’s shoulders, and Wilde is thankful for the extra barrier against the cold. 

Sohra speaks to Zolf, a knowing gleam in her eye. “It’s important to keep them warm.” Zolf nods and wraps an arm around Wilde’s middle. He doesn’t remove it, not when they walk out of the ritual space and greet their friends, not when they sit down in front of the fire and Wilde is still dizzy, but now it’s with love.

***

There is no question in Zolf’s mind as to where Wilde is sleeping that night. He’s sleeping where Zolf can keep a hand pressed to his chest, where he can feel the steady thump of his heart under his palm, the warmth of his skin, the rise and fall of his breaths. He’s sleeping where Zolf can keep him warm. There is a hunger that’s been building steadily in Zolf all day, remnants of the adrenaline still skittering around in his bloodstream that have taken up residence low in his belly. Zolf can’t predict when he  _ wants _ . It comes rarely, and goes often and there seems to be no pattern to it except that it’s around most often when he’s in love. And he is in love. 

He drags Wilde into the room by the hand and wastes no time in pushing him down onto the bed. His mouth is hungry at Wilde’s throat, greedily drawing gasp after gasp from it and luxuriating in the satisfaction of being the one to will those noises into existence. He doesn’t mind sex. He could live without it, but it’s a perfectly pleasant way to spend time. But every so often, he gets a brief glimpse, a brief window of understanding into what it must be like for others, for people who wilt like flowers without water without the touch of a lover. He doesn’t know how Wilde could stand it. Tonight he will water his lover well.

He removes layer after layer of clothing from their bodies. He wants to feel the press of the man’s body, the warmth, the evidence of blood moving under Wilde’s skin against his own. Wilde is trembling and flushed and satisfyingly,  _ achingly  _ hard. Zolf pushes him to lay back on the bed. Seeing Wilde naked isn’t new. His skin is familiar to him, well known, every quirk catalogued. Seeing Wilde naked isn’t new, but seeing him sprawled beneath him, legs open, lips parted, and panting is something he’s only ever dared to imagine. He takes time to appraise the new mass of scar tissue, the new color of his hair. The white throws the moonlight off of it in a beautiful array of colors. He crawls up between Wilde’s thighs and wraps a hand around his leaking prick. 

Wilde shudders and arches, gasping and moaning, moving his hips in stilted, desperate circles. Zolf holds him still, presses him into the furs on the bed and works his cock in long, slow strokes. Wilde is almost sobbing, but it is with pleasure, nothing like the cries he’s familiar with. 

Zolf finds his voice. “How long has it been? How long since someone else has touched you?”

Wilde’s lips part on a moan and he shakes his head. “It’s been just me. Only my own hand, since—” Zolf tightens his grip and strokes a little faster, pausing at the tip to gather the liquid oozing there. “Fuck, Zolf, please,  _ please _ .”

Wilde’s hips buck under his grip, but Zolf is strong and holds him firm. He’s going to take his time. It’s what his flower deserves. 

Zolf gets off the bed, and Wilde whines until he sees what Zolf finds amongst his things. He brings back a vial of oil with him to bed and Wilde moans at the sight. 

“Meant for massages,” Zolf explains as he pours some of it onto his fingers, “but it’s supposed to be safe for this too.” 

Zolf drinks in the darkness of Wilde’s eyes, usually a bright and clear blue, but currently a stormy grey. 

“Only my own hand,” Wilde babbles, “I thought of you, nothing but you, every time I touched myself.” Zolf tightens his grip without meaning to as heat spills down his spine. “It’s been nothing but you for so long now.”

Wilde fixes him with unfocused eyes and Zolf would do anything to make sure he could see his face this open and relaxed again.

“You don’t have to, you know that, don’t you, darling?” Wilde licks his lips.

_ Darling _ . He wants to hear Wilde call him darling every day for the rest of his godsforsaken life.

“I want to.” Zolf assures him, because Wilde knows, knows that Zolf doesn’t usually do this, doesn’t usually  _ want _ . “Let me give you your break. Let me take care of you, let me make you feel good. I want to. I want you. I _ want  _ you.”

Wilde shivers under him and Zolf can tell from the flush creeping across his skin that it has nothing to do with the cold.

“Show me.” Zolf’s voice is hoarse, filled with gravel, with all of the emotion he’s tried to tamp down and cannot any longer. “Show me how you touch yourself, when you think of me.”

He can’t believe he’s had the presence of mind to say that. It even sounds romantic, and it makes Wilde toss his head back and moan as Zolf reaches for his cock. He lets Wilde cover his hand, lets Wilde teach him exactly how he likes to be touched. A firm grip, long pulls in a steady rhythm that he can roll his hips into. Zolf’s own cock is leaking against Wilde’s thigh and the teasing friction of it is almost too much. 

Wilde whines and moves Zolf’s hand from around his cock down over his hole. He rolls his hips against them, trying to press into them. Zolf pours oil over Wilde’s fingers.

“Show me.” He repeats. Wilde moans and props himself up on an elbow as he slides one long finger inside himself. Zolf alternates between meeting his heated gaze and intently watching the way his fingers work inside himself. He works himself open quickly, panting open mouthed with lips that are red and swollen from kissing. He presses a second finger inside himself and whines, wriggling his hips into the pressure and quickening the speed of his hand. 

“Think of you when I do this,” Wilde pants, “think of your hands, your fingers, try to imagine what your cock would feel like inside me, filling me up.”

He’s about to add a third finger when Zolf drags his hand away and replaces it with three of his own fingers. 

Zolf’s fingers are thicker than Wilde’s; two of Wilde's fingers make up the approximate width of one of Zolf’s. Zolf knows pressing three of his fingers into the man is going to be a stretch, but he’s seen the way Wilde likes to be touched and knows he’ll savor the stretch and burn of it. Wilde wraps his delicate fingers, still slick with oil, around Zolf’s wrist, encouraging their press forward and into his body. Wilde’s mouth hangs open as Zolf sinks his fingers in as far as they’ll reach. He remembers the clever crook of Wilde’s fingers, and goes searching until Wilde’s fingers constrict around his wrist and he wails.

“There, right there, just like that! Gods,  _ Zolf _ .”

Zolf gathers Wilde’s thin wrists together in his free hand and pins them over his head, into the softness and warmth of the furs beneath them. 

“ _ Yes.” _ Wilde breathes, and Zolf has to lean down far enough over him that the word is whispered into his ear, Wilde’s warm breath sending a thrill down his spine. 

Their faces are so close like this. He can feel the puff of Wilde’s breath warm across the bridge of his nose. Wilde’s grey eyes search Zolf’s as he fucks him open and holds him down. 

“Are you going to fuck me, my darling?” 

Zolf’s cock pulses and he groans. 

Wilde tilts his head up to steal a searing kiss, rocking his hips into the movements of Zolf’s hands.

“Are you going to take care of me? Give me your thick cock and make me scream your name to the gods?”

Zolf should have known he’d be absolutely filthy in bed. 

“That what you want?” Zolf asks. He’s already pulled his fingers out to slick up his length. He presses his throbbing cock to Wilde and pauses, waiting for his answer.

“More than anything.” Comes Wilde’s whispered response, and Zolf thrusts into him in one smooth motion, overcome briefly by the tightness and heat of his lover’s body, by the cry of exaltation that spills from his lover’s lips, by the unmistakable signs of life emanating from the body moving against his own. Wilde is alive. Zolf gets to have this, gets to keep this. Wilde writhing and moaning beneath him, spurring him on with every roll of his hips, with every broken moan and plea for more. 

“Harder, love, please.  _ Zolf _ .” The way Wilde says his name in the throes of ecstasy will be permanently branded in his memory. The way Wilde calls him  _ darling _ and  _ love _ , is something he never wants to forget, something he wants to hear again and again. Zolf moves his hips with a frantic energy, chasing his own release as much as he’s chasing his lover’s. Every snap of his hips is met with a moan or a breathless gasp and every movement, every sound, drills further into his mind that the body beneath him is very much alive, that Wilde is very much alive and breathing and begging Zolf for his release.

Zolf wraps a hand around Wilde’s cock when he feels his own release coiling in his belly. He strokes him exactly the way he was taught, exactly the way he knows Wilde likes. Wilde comes first, with a halting cry and Zolf’s name on his lips. 

Wilde keeps moving his hips. He wraps his legs around Zolf’s waist, pulls him in again and again. “Come for me my love, come on, come on.”

Zolf groans as his orgasm washes over him, the strongest he can remember having. He shakes with the force of it, sealing his lips around a patch of skin on Wilde’s neck and sucking until the waves of pleasure have receded. There is a dark bruise high on Wilde’s neck when he pulls away. Zolf likes the way it looks there, a new mark on his skin, a wanted one, a mark Zolf himself has left. It makes something possessive and warm curl up in his chest and bask in satisfaction.

Zolf cleans them up as best he can. Once the high of sex has worn off, his exhaustion finally catches up to him and he curls around Wilde possessively. The man’s limbs are much longer than Zolf’s but he fits into Zolf like he was made for it. Zolf keeps a hand on his chest, lets the beating of his heart reassure him throughout the night. He wakes up to Wilde’s crooked and sleepy smile and his bright white curls splayed across his chest and the first thing he thinks in the light of the dawning sun is,  _ ‘I love you.’ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my lovelies!


End file.
